


Stepping Stone

by pristineungift



Category: Legend of the Seeker
Genre: Confessor, Drama, Dubious Consent, M/M, Power Play, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-15
Updated: 2012-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:30:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pristineungift/pseuds/pristineungift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Anon Wrong!Ship  Rare!Ship Comment!Fic Meme, for the prompt “Darken Rahl/Prince Fyren - Rahl gets Kahlan's Confessor powers as planned in 'Conversion' and marches into Aydindril to deal with this upstart.” Darken Rahl/Prince Fyren. Mentioned Darken Rahl/Richard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stepping Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by evilgmbethy

****

  
_Isn't it strange that princes and kings  
And clowns that caper in sawdust rings  
And common folk like you and me  
Are the builders of eternity._   
  
_To each is given a bag of tools,  
A shapeless mass and a book of rules;  
And each must make, ere time is flown,  
A stumbling-block or a stepping-stone._   


- _Stumbling Block_ , R.L. Sharpe

**-l-**

Darken Rahl walked into the halls of Aydindril, traveling cloak flowing from his shoulders, ignoring the open mouthed stares of the commoners. Whispers followed his steps down the aisle of the great hall, gasps and murmurs – that he is a male Confessor that escaped the Ritual of the Waters, that he has begun to use his power on rulers that oppose him.

A smirk crept onto his face. Fools. They were wrong. He had not always been a Confessor, but acquired the power through magic and skill.

And then came a whisper from the crowd, loud enough for him to hear, “All that have shown him loyalty have been confessed all along, for why else would anyone follow him?”

_Why else would anyone love him._

The smirk faded from Darken’s lips as he met the eyes of the whisperer, enjoying the sudden draining of blood from her face as she realized he had heard.

Prince Fyren emerged from a door behind the throne dais at the front of the hall, ink smudged on his fingers. It had been many years since Darken had been able to openly visit Aydindril without fear of assassination, but if memory served, the door led to the private chambers of the Mother Confessor.

Apparently Fyren had claimed them for his own.

“Lord Rahl?” Fyren offered a small, stiff smile, sinking into the chair reserved for the judging Confessor. “My soldiers told me you had come for a state visit, but I hardly dared believe it. Had you sent word ahead, I would have prepared a proper feast.”

Distracted by Fyren’s entrance, Darken turned to look upon him, forgetting the woman that whispered. Fyren was certainly handsome enough, his clothes speaking to his wealth. But he was a boy, a child prince.

And Darken was a king. The Lord Rahl. And, more to the point, he had become the last to have a right to the throne Fyren had appropriated for himself.

He was the Father Confessor.

“Leave us,” he said, his voice echoing throughout the hall. He did not look to see that the peons obeyed, he did not need to. That they would defy him was inconceivable.

Fyren frowned, face flushing red as he stood, angry at Lord Rahl daring to order his subjects, angrier still that they listened. But his tirade was cut short as Lord Rahl stalked toward him, long red cloak billowing with his movements. Fyren took a step back, his calves pressed to the base of his throne.

Considering the prince before him, Darken reached with one hand to stroke a finger along the boy's well-formed jaw.

Despite himself, Fyren leaned into the touch, a shiver going down his spine.

There was something hypnotic about Lord Rahl’s blue eyes, something beyond the throne at his back that kept Fyren rooted to the spot.

Darken gently, in a way that seemed almost obscene, pushed Fyren to the side, turning to sit in the Confessor’s throne, his robes draped artistically around him. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply through his nose, a thrill of triumph echoing through his bones. How many times had he imagined this moment? The reality was even sweeter than his dreams.

Through half-lidded eyes he peered at the younger man standing before him, taking in the line of his tunic, the strength of his hands.

It had been a long journey to Aydindril.

Shifting, Darken pressed one of his boots to Fyren’s leg, “Remove my boots. Then you may undress me.”

He said it so magnanimously. As if it were a gift.

A privilege.

Fyren flushed again, rage choking him at being treated as a servant in his own kingdom. But he bent, hands shaking, to do as he was bid.

Lord Rahl was a powerful enemy to make, and there were worse fates.

He doubted he could call for his guards before that famous blade flashed, and he wished D’Hara to be his ally rather than turning its ravenous teeth upon his kingdom.

 _And it is so forceful, so thrilling to be before a man who could kill you. To be defied_ , a dark voice that Fyren did not want to acknowledge whispered within his heart.

Fyren met those cold blue eyes, and an understanding passed between the two men. Kneeling, he removed Darken’s boots, saying, “Yes, Lord Rahl.”

He rubbed Darken's feet once the boots were placed neatly on the floor, in lengthening strokes until he was running his fingertips lightly up and down the other man’s legs. Hesitantly, he glanced up to see if this was truly was what Lord Rahl wanted.

Darken Rahl’s eyes were shut, an almost feline look of bliss upon his features, his soot black hair splayed against his cheek.

Fyren was surprised at the tightening of his breeches, though not because Darken Rahl was a man. He was no stranger to brotherly love, having more than once enjoyed its delights. No, he was surprised at his own willingness, his excitement, at how quickly his anger was replaced with lust.

“If my lord would stand?” he asked, still playing the obedient slave.

And perhaps he was Lord Rahl's slave. He was disdainful of weakness, despised those that fell easily into his bed, had no respect for a man not capable of taking what he wanted, for women unable to match the will of a prince. Lord Rahl was none of those things.

Lord Rahl stood, and Fyren did as well, stepping in close, his breath hot on Darken’s skin. Lord Rahl did not move, but continued to stare, blank faced.  To Fyren it was a challenge, a gamble, a dare to continue the encounter the bulge in his breeches made it obvious he wanted.

He was a slave to his pride.

He leaned in to kiss Lord Rahl’s cheeks, the greeting of one royal to another. Then, growing bolder and frustrated with the lack of response, he kissed him on the lips, hands grasping at the belt that held Lord Rahl’s over-robe in place.

Darken took control of the kiss as the boy fumbled at his belt, turning it into a play of dominance, and passion – his victory of making Fyren come to him. The boy groaned into his mouth, and Darken swallowed the sound, his pulse racing.

How exciting he had always found it, the sweetness of surrender. More exciting still to be in Aydindril’s great hall, knowing they could be interrupted at any moment.

And then Fyren unbuckled his belt, and Darken shrugged out of his over-robe, letting it fall to the floor. The boy stepped back to stare at him, trembling fingers reaching out to caress the swell of his bicep. Darken smirked, taking pleasure in the obvious pleasure Fyren took in his body.

Eye to eye, he unhooked the clasps of his vest, letting it join the red pile of velvet and brocade pooling on the floor. “Do I please you, boy?” he asked in a deep purr, pupils dilated with desire.

Fyren swallowed hard, jaw tensing at being called a mere boy, his pride demanding that he show Lord Rahl differently, make him scream, make him all too aware that Fyren was more than a man – a prince. Mouth dry, it took him a moment to answer, “Very much so, Lord Rahl.”

He wrapped his arms around Lord Rahl, pressing kisses to his neck, working his way down to his chest. His nails slid over Darken's back, a hissing intake of air letting him know the lord liked it. Sliding to his knees, Fyren groaned as his cheek brushed the bulge under the skirt of those red robes. He looked up at the man standing over him, aroused beyond measure by his regal stance, the way his blue eyes glinted with desire.

“My sweet boy,” Darken murmured, fire shooting through his loins. Threading the fingers of one hand into the Fyren's remarkably soft hair, he rubbed the hard length of his arousal against the boy's cheek, then pressed it to his lips through the cloth of his robes, revealing the urgency of his need.

“You know what I desire,” he said, slightly short of breath, blood pulsing through his veins at the feel of Fyren’s admittedly lovely lips against his groin.

Darken licked his lips as his robes fell to the floor, eyes trained on Fyren’s straining breeches. Fyren pressed hot kisses to his thighs, and Darken growled, tired of the teasing, yanking on the boy's hair. There would be time enough for that later, but for now he needed release after his long journey. Hot lips, and hotter tongue, that was what he wanted.

Fyren smiled a smug little grin at Darken's insistence, at the hair pulling. That was the reaction he was striving for, the insistence, the ferocity a balm to his bruised ego. Taking Lord Rahl’s length into his mouth, Fyren sucked long and hard, eyes fluttering shut as he drank in the sound of Darken's moans. He loved that he could do this to Darken Rahl, the legendary warrior. Darken Rahl, the infamous king was made to writhe and moan by the man he called a boy mere moments ago.

Lord Rahl tugged harder on Fyren’s hair, thrusting into his mouth. Fyren obliged him, lips and tongue moving faster, one hand trailing nails along Darken’s naked thigh, the other sliding up to cup the tender flesh beneath Darken's shaft.

A startled gasp followed by a low moan of satisfaction was all the reward he needed.

Fidgeting, Fyren moaned a little himself with his own need, feeling himself twitch against the rough fabric of his breeches. Lord Rahl was famed as a skillful lover – Fyren would ensure that his release followed Lord Rahl’s own. He would accept nothing less.

Fyren knew what he was doing, leading Darken to believe he had done it before. He could feel his climax building and grew rougher, wilder, thrusting deep into the boy's mouth, tearing at Fyren’s oh-so-soft hair. Looking down, Darken enjoyed the sight of the lad on his knees, lips sliding up and down his shaft.

In an instant, he imagined that it was Richard on his knees, Richard who so eagerly sucked and licked, face buried in Darken's groin. The thought was exquisite, exhilarating, a dark fantasy he seldom indulged in. With a final rough thrust, he gasped out his kinsman's name, toes curling, muscles spasming as he struggled to remain standing, his seed spurting hot and salty down the Fyren's throat.

And his eyes swirled black, the scent of thunder without the storm, the press of auras heightening his climax as he held Fyren's head in place, unwilling to withdraw just yet.

Fyren had time only for one last surge of rage that Lord Rahl called another man’s name before he found he loved Darken, his lover, his Master. Loved him so completely, he could see nothing else. He willingly swallowed his Lord's seed, sighed around him in contentment, resting his head against Master's thigh.

When the Master pulled away, he was bereft. He feared that this perfect man would leave him, would not want him, and Fyren had to be near him at all costs. “Command me, Confessor.”

Darken opened his eyes, thinking slowly as his passion hazed mind cleared.

Of course. He was a Confessor now, with all the trappings of being one. Including enslaving all those he laid with.

“The rumors of your new power are true, Master,” Fyren said, and Darken nodded. “I did not think they were.”

He smiled beatifically, so happy to be in his lord’s presence. “I love you, Master.”

“Yes, I know you do,” Darken answered.

He sounded weary.


End file.
